Weedon and Matt sat playing cards late one night. A shriek, accompanied by vicious snarling, caused the men to jump to their feet.
"The wolf's attacked somebody," Matt said.
"Bring a light!" Weedon shouted as he rushed outside.
Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light, they saw a man lying on his back. His arms were folded across his face and neck. White Fang was in a rage, wickedly snapping, trying to get at the man's throat. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were shredded, and blood streamed into the snow.
Weedon dragged White Fang away. "Quiet, boy!"
As Matt helped the man to his feet, the hideous face of Beauty Smith was revealed. Beauty blinked in the lamplight and then caught sight of White Fang. A look of terror fell over the man's face.
Matt noticed two objects lying in the snow—a length of chain and a club. He held the lamp close so Weedon could see them. Weedon looked at Matt and nodded. Then Matt laid his hand on Beauty's shoulder, turned him around, and shoved him back toward town.
White Fang growled softly as Weedon petted him.
"Tried to steal you, huh?" Weedon said. "And you wouldn't allow that! Well, he made a mistake, didn't he?"
Matt chuckled in agreement.
Time went by, and White Fang began to sense a change in Weedon. Through careful observation of his god, the wolf could tell that a big event was going to take place.
"I believe the wolf's on to you, Mr. Scott," Matt said one evening at supper.
Outside they could hear White Fang whining and sniffing at the bottom of the cabin door.
Weedon sighed. "What can I possibly do with a wolf in California?"
"That's a good question," Matt replied.
"He'd kill dogs on sight," Weedon went on. "I'd wind up getting sued and going bankrupt. Or worse—the authorities would take him away from me and put him down."
"He's a downright murderer, I know," Matt said.
Weedon looked at Matt for a moment. "It would never do, Matt. He can't come with me."
"I agree," Matt said.
"Then that settles it."
The two men sat quietly. Outside, White Fang continued to whine.
"There's no denying he loves you," Matt said.
"I know that." Weedon paused for a minute. "But it would be crazy for me to take him with me."
"That's true," Matt said. He glanced over at the cabin door. "How does he know you're leaving anyway?"
Weedon shook his head. "I have no idea."
A few days later, White Fang spied Weedon's luggage through the cabin's open door. That night White Fang sat near the stoop of the cabin, pointed his nose to the stars, and let out a long and sad howl.
Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.
"He stopped eating today," Matt remarked from his bunk.
There was a grunt from Weedon's bunk, and a stir of blankets.
"Considering how he was the last time you went away," Matt said, "I wouldn't be surprised if he died this time."
"Oh, shut up!" Weedon cried out through the darkness. "I can't take him with me!"
"I know, I know."
The next day White Fang whined as Weedon packed his clothes into canvas bags. Matt rolled blankets and furs inside a small tarpaulin. Later two Indians arrived and picked up the luggage. Matt led them down the hill, into town, and returned a short while later. Weedon came to the cabin door and called White Fang inside.
"You poor devil," he said, gently rubbing behind White Fang's ears. "I'm hitting the long trail, where you cannot follow. Now give me a growl—a really good, good-bye growl."
But White Fang refused. After a wistful, searching look at Weedon, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between his master's arm and body.
"There's the whistle!" Matt cried. "The steamship's about to set sail. Lock the front door, Mr. Scott. I'll go out the back."
The two doors slammed at the same moment, leaving White Fang locked inside. Weedon waited for Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low whining.
"Take good care of him," Weedon said, as they walked down the hill. "Write and let me know how he's doing."
"Sure," Matt answered. "But listen to that, will you?"
Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters lie dead. It was the saddest howl the men had ever heard—filled with heartbreaking grief.
The steamship's deck was crowded with gold-seekers, all eager to leave the Klondike and return home. Matt and Weedon were shaking hands when Matt's gaze fixed on something behind Weedon. The other turned around to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away was White Fang.
"Did you lock the front door?" Matt asked.
Weedon nodded. "How about the back door?"
"You bet I did," Matt replied.
White Fang watched Weedon intently.
Matt sighed. "I'll have to take him ashore with me."
Matt took a few steps toward White Fang, but the wolf sprang away. Matt sprinted, and White Fang dodged between the legs of a group of men. Ducking and turning, he shot around the deck, eluding Matt's efforts to capture him.
"White Fang, here!" Weedon commanded.
The wolf trotted immediately to his god.
Weedon ran his hands through White Fang's fur and then bent closer.
"Look at that, Matt," he said. "He's got fresh cuts on his muzzle, and there's a gash between his eyes."
Matt passed his hand along White Fang's belly.
"He's all cut up," Matt said. "He must have jumped through the window!"
The steamship's whistle sounded. All around, "good-byes" were said and some people headed back down the gangplank to the dock. Matt reached for White Fang.
Weedon grasped the other man's hand. "Good-bye, Matt. About the wolf—you don't have to write. You see, I'm going to . . ."
"What!" Matt exclaimed.
Weedon nodded. "I'll write to you about him."
Matt headed down the gangplank. Halfway down, he shouted back at Weedon, "He'll never stand the climate! You'll have to clip him in warm weather!"
As the steamship moved away from the dock, Weedon waved a last good-bye to Matt. Then he bent over White Fang and rubbed behind the wolf's ears.
"Now growl for me!"